Of Fashion and Flat-Pack and Foreplay
by Alias424
Summary: For Jane, it was a chore; for Maura, an anthropological expedition. They had walked in hand in hand and had left the same way—that much was a success. The actual assembly, however, was proving to be a different matter.


**A/N: This ended up as something completely different to what I started with. And was the first R&I fic I think I tried writing, actually. Go figure.  
As always, thanks so much for reading, and I always love hearing from you! **

* * *

'Jane?'

Maura has this way of turning that single syllable into a whole damn melody (there are at least sixty-seven different ways she sings it, from ballad to rock anthem—and even the most exasperated ones send a shiver up Jane's spine).

'Up here!' Jane answers—and instantly regrets giving away her location.

The bedroom looks like a scene out of a ready-to-assemble horror movie—bolts and boards and bits of plastic and packaging everywhere. With Jane in the middle of it, irritated and sweating.

It began with Maura insisting that her house needed more _Jane _in it (since Jane herself never seemed to leave—and they both preferred it that way). And not just the bits of Jane that were socks thrown into corners and t-shirts slung onto the backs of chairs, but something bordering on permanent (and slightly more orderly). It continued with Jane's downright refusal to agree to anything in any of the seven exorbitantly expensive boutiques she let Maura drag her to.

And so—before Maura could purchase something herself and Jane could lose interest altogether—they formed some sort of compromise.

And that's how the girls ended up at IKEA.

For Jane, it was a chore; for Maura, an anthropological expedition. They had walked in hand in hand and had left the same way—that much was a success. The actual assembly, however, was proving to be a different matter.

Everything had seemed rosy enough when they'd wrestled the flat-packed boxes into the bedroom to survey the goods, and Maura had volunteered to continue the usual Saturday errands on her own (running out with jingling keys, a lingering kiss, and the swish of her skirt). And suddenly Jane found herself opening plastic packets of hardware and foolishly _foolishly_ wondering: _How hard could it be?_

The answer was very. For two reasons.

One: Jane's building process roughly resembles that of a five-year-old with a Lego set marked _Ages 12+ _(look at instructions, 'follow' instructions, realise she's using the wrong size bolt/board/whatever, get irrationally angry at instructions, rinse and repeat).

And two: the image of Maura in _that dress _keeps swimming before her eyes (a thin strap falling off her shoulder as she pushes against Jane's hand, the neckline straining with quickening breaths, the red-and-white of the skirt bunching and blurring above her waist).

That dress is… well, a dress, as far as Jane is concerned. Her knowledge of the fashion of it ends somewhere along with the terms _spaghetti straps _and _v-neck_ and _skirt_. Maybe it's the simplicity of it. Maybe it's the way it enhances assets that Jane would have sworn blind could not have been enhanced any further whatsoever.

Whatever the reason, the thing is fucking magical. Like unicorns and wands and wizards levels of magic. (And also the _it's still in one piece _kind of magic, seeing as Jane is less than gentle about tearing it off every time Maura wears it).

Of course, Maura feigns innocence (and the obnoxious need for clothing), but she damn well knew what she was doing when she put that dress on this morning.

And she damn well knew what she was fucking doing when she had licked herself off Jane's fingers, dropped the car keys into a trembling palm, and all but strutted out the door with a particularly wicked grin. (Jane's been simmering just south of full-blown, fuck-me-now arousal for hours—even the IKEA instructions are starting to look pornographic.)

The bolt Jane is supposed to be tightening seems only to be getting looser. And her attempt at extra force sends everything clattering to the floor. 'Whoever designed the freaking Allen wrench should be shot.'

'Hex key,' Maura corrects, materialising in the doorway. 'Originally patented by William G. Allen as far as anyone can tell, but his company is no longer the primary manufacturer.'

Jane gives _that look_ without meaning to—there's a bit of impatience and _you can't be serious_ but also, increasingly, just enough of _I think I love you_ to soften the edges.

'What?' Maura asks, clearly not understanding how such a helpful correction could be so easily dismissed. 'Calling every hex key an Allen key is like calling all facial tissues Kleenex. The brand has become synonymous with the generic item, but the nomenclature is all wrong.'

'I'll be sure to be more careful with my nomenclature in the—oh _for the love of_—'

'What is it?' Maura's brow furrows in concern.

Jane forces a small smile as she flexes the fingers in her cramping hand and shrugs towards the hardware scattered around her. 'I should have two more of these shorter screws.'

Maura's palm is cool and welcoming at the base of her neck, her fingertips working out a knot there that Jane hadn't realised she had. And her voice is only _slightly _chastising. 'You were supposed to wait for me, Jane. The pictographs in the instructions clearly indicate—'

'I know, I know. You spent the first five minutes after we opened the box explaining how that guy with the screwdriver was devastated until the guy with the pencil showed up. I got bored.'

The nimble fingers at her neck skitter lower, following the tight muscles just at the edges of her spine—and Jane knows, if she turns right at this moment, she'll come face to cleavage with the most exquisite pair of breasts she's ever laid eyes (and fingers and tongue) on. She thinks she moans, softly (she tries not to). But Maura's standing straight again, a last lingering sweep of her hand up the side of Jane's neck.

'We should have taken that boy at the checkout up on his offer of an assembly service.'

'The boy at the checkout was an idiot.' Jane sees red without fully meaning to, her voice harsh. 'And I didn't like the way he was looking at you.'

Or the way anyone else was either, for that matter.

Next time she takes the goddamn sexiest medical examiner in existence anywhere with that many other humans, she's bringing her gun and badge (or hell, a full-blown suit of shining armour, for all the defending of her fair maiden she'd had to do). Five dirty looks, two raised eyebrows, eight times as a human shield while Maura bent down or forward to delight in some object or its Swedish translation.

And all that was before the monster at the checkout with his overly-gelled hair and misspelled tattoo and the complete lack of shame as he looked _her_ woman up and down and even gave a knowing and appreciative _I'd totally watch that _nod when Jane made her claim apparent (a possessive arm, an emphasised _babe_, and even a quick nuzzle thrown in for good measure).

'I doubt he would have been the one to do the assembling, Jane.'

'Not a chance I was willing to take.'

She stands and pulls Maura towards her by the skirt to underline her point (and circle it, bold it, flash a fucking neon sign in its direction). It's not a kiss or an embrace, exactly—just bodies flush together and breathing in and _mine_.

Maura answers with a soft kiss to the shoulder that sounds like _yes_ (the next to the curve of the neck is _always_), and then…. 'I think Jo could use a walk. She was pacing by the door when I got home.'

Jane finds herself turned and pushed gently towards the hall before she has a chance to react.

It's entirely possible that this woman is trying to kill her.

* * *

_Keys and bag in hand and just by the door when Jane kisses her. Not a passing kiss. Not a _let's go_ kiss or an _oh hello there _kiss . A knockdown, drag-out, _I need you right now _kiss. Open-mouthed and searching tongue and wandering hands—only a few seconds and at her thighs already._

_Maura finds an in (half-hearted, now—_please don't stop)_ when Jane trails to her neck. 'We're going to fall behind schedule.'_

'_It's Saturday. We have a schedule?' The very idea throws her, and Jane stops immediately (hand stilled, but not displaced), looking at her as if she'd spoken in Greek._

'_Yes. We need to be on the road by ten if we want to get to IKEA before it gets too busy and still have time for the rest of the errands.'_

'_Why didn't you say so? That changes everything.'_

'_It does?'_

'_No. You should have thought about your schedule before you put on that dress.' Jane's alluringly matter-of-fact, fingering the hem and sliding it so-slowly upwards._

'_What's wrong with my dress?'_

'_Nothing.'_

_Jane speaks in sarcasm and riddles but her hands are symphonies (and sonnets)—quick staccato notes that swell to crescendo (rhythm and rhyme and iambic pentameter). And she kisses like it's as much one of her beloved national pastimes as baseball. Maura jerks when a rough palm presses against her centre—the woman's barely touched her and the evidence of her arousal is already damning._

_Because, as it turns out, Maura Isles can be turned on by something as mind-numbingly simple as the preparation of slightly burnt toast and scrambled eggs._

_Though it helps (naturally) when the chef of the breakfast in question is a certain barefoot detective—smooth stomach and toned abs and bra on display as she waits for the most comfortable of her weekend shirts to dry._

_Maura grabs a fistful of that shirt now, the soft cotton still warm from the dryer (and Jane). _

'_Jane….'_

_The last scrap of material between them is pushed roughly aside as Jane continues her dance of touches and barely-touches. 'There?'_

'_No, just….'_

_Slick fingers and an increase in pressure. 'There?'_

_It's the gravelly hitch in Jane's voice just __**there**__ that always gets her. _

_Every._

_Damn. _

_Time._

_Maura can barely breathe. 'You __**know **__there. Jane. Please….'_

_And still Jane teases. Almost always she teases._

_Because, as it turns out, between the right woman's legs, Jane Rizzoli likes to linger. Always a wham-bam-thank-you… well, sir, actually… kinda woman before, but now she lives for small sounds and movements and touches. She knows which tilt of the pelvis means Maura's getting close (and which is just begging), and she knows that right now, as she holds the writhing woman up against the wall, just inside the (almost their) front door that if she swirls her thumb just there, she can reduce the Chief Medical Examiner of Massachusetts to a monosyllabic mess. (And if she waits and teases and waits some more, single syllables become gibberish and Maura will gasp her name as she comes.)_

_The decision is an easy one._

* * *

'Sexy.'

It's really the only word to describe the sight of Maura Isles bending over a half-finished dresser frame, brow furrowed in concentration (it helps that the skirt to _that dress_ has ridden so far up her thigh that it's basically non-existent—helps, but it's not necessary).

'What?' The question is genuine as Maura turns to face her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear—the woman really has no idea.

'You.'

There's that soft smile and the colour rising in Maura's cheeks—and the quick return to business. 'I wanted to see if this was as difficult as you made it look.'

'And?'

Her own voice sounds low and foreign. The dog-walking, the furniture-building, the shopping and long car rides… nothing has helped slow the steady pulsing between her thighs. And certainly the way Maura rises like dancing and smoothes the wrinkles out of her dress is not exactly helping. She's excited with her quick progress (and probably also the way she's managed to neaten the room), eyes shining.

'It's all an exercise in properly-applied torque and correct angles.'

'Of course it is.'

Jane can't even put on a proper show of grumbling—she suddenly has her arms full of Maura, and her hands find their way around that familiar waist and slide lower, squeezing gently. Maura smiles into her shoulder before rising on her toes and kissing like the sun in summer—sultry and blinding, then fickly flitting away as if behind a cloud.

'Jane?' (_Please, please, please, please…._) 'Help me finish this?'

Dammit.

Maura is cruel beyond measure, must know that she can get Jane to do anything with that tone and those eyes. And there's half a second of hope as Jane feels something like sweet relief against her breast, the promise of fluttering fingertips. But it's her own fucking fingers, and God, she's so helplessly, hopelessly lost.

She has one shot, and she takes it.

'I think first you should help _me_ finish.' (And it can't hurt to raise the stakes.) 'Or I'll have to do it myself.'

She expects a playful shove or _Jane… _or something that amounts to _no, we're finishing this right fucking now and I'll finish __**you**__ later. _Instead she gets slender arms linking around her waist, fingers slipping underneath cotton to trace smooth circles on her skin. (It's almost a victory, but she's not taking any chances.)

Maura's eyes are dark and dangerous in the best way possible. 'Where were we?'

'You tell me.' Jane's still wary, trying to keep her distance to draw Maura nearer (and yet as a thumb skates _soclose_ to the underside of her breast, she's arching already). She grits her teeth, tries to stay still. 'You're the one who's had this whole day planned out.'

'Not all of it.'

Full-on thumb-to-nipple action now, alternating quick flicks with tortuously long strokes. _Jesus._

'I know—I threw us ten minutes off schedule.' Jane manages the sarcasm, her eye-roll practically audible (it's an effort to make the almost-growl that catches in her throat less so). 'I'm terrible.'

'I highly approved of that deviation. Did I not make that clear?'

Oh yes. Clear as glass and gasping and _Jane, Jane, Jaaaaane…._

'You did all of this on purpose, didn't you?' It's really pointless to pretend she's not putty in Maura's hands—soft and malleable, pressing against her. 'The dress, the errands, the endless waiting.'

'The dress is just a dress, Jane.'

Bullshit.

'I hope you get hives.'

'You do not.'

'Fine. Just… Mauraaa.' The _A _drags halfway to forever, pleading (and cracking somewhere in the middle—a thigh pushed between both of hers, just far away enough so she can't quite reach it). And finally: 'Please?'

'Okay.' Maura says it sweet and simpering—as if all she'd been trying to do all day was teach good manners (and while quick fingers unbutton jeans, dragging down the zipper, peeling back denim just enough—the contrast is as much a turn-on as the motions).

'Wait, what?' The ratio of groan to actual words is about 80/20, and quickly sliding. 'All damn day and all I needed was the fucking magic word?'

Maura pulls back, incredulous. 'Are you honestly going to complain about that now?'

Okay, yes. Maybe? But really….

'No, ma'am.' This gets her a look (but earns her more closeness). 'Sir.' Another. 'Babe?'

Maura's copied her earlier motion, slipping past underwear and fingering slick folds (there's a sound she always makes there, when she finally feels how wet she's made Jane—it almost unravels her completely). 'You're impossible.'

Jane is pretty sure it's going to kill her. All of it—the fingers, the sudden quickness after a day of teasing, that fucking beautiful dress (and the fucking beautiful woman inside it). 'You love it.'

(And _this _and _us _and _me_ are all wrapped up in those two small letters and tied with a bow.)

'Yes.'

Maura presses the word into her mouth and kisses like breathing. And that's all Jane needs.


End file.
